Playboy Prankster: Extreme Racing, Book 1

by Pamela Britton

  “Ten seconds, Bryce.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Nine.”

  “I’m getting out.”

  “Eight.”

  “No you aren’t. Just think how disappointed Marybeth will be.”

  “Seven.”

  “She’ll learn to live with her disappointment.”

  “Six.”

  “Just sit back and enjoy the ride.”

  “Five.”

  “Enjoy? Hah! Darn it, how do you get this seatbelt off?”

  “Four.”

  “Hold on, CJ. We’ll be on our away in a sec.”

  “Three.”

  “I don’t want to be on our way, I want out.”

  “Two.”

  “There’s no time.”

  “One.”

  “Too late.”

  “Oh, Gawd,” CJ screamed again a heartbeat later. The starter waved his green flag. The idling motor roared to life. The lurch of the vehicle slung her back.

  “Hold on,” Bryce twanged in his Southern drawl.

  Hold on? What was there to hold on to? The interior of the truck was bare sheet metal with three inch poles intersecting at odd angles—like some kind of sick jungle gym. Besides, she couldn’t move if her life depended on it. The Gs were too strong.

  And then she saw why Bryce’d told her to hold on.

  The road disappeared.

  “Hoooooly,” she screeched just before they dropped off the edge of the planet. They were in the air forever. The 4x4 landed with a helmet-jarring thunk and the world went black. It took her a moment to determine it was the helmet. She pushed it back up, then immediately wished she hadn’t. The world started to whiz by at a dizzying speed. Faster and faster they flew, desert scrub and rocks sliding past them.

  “It’s pretty smooth from here on out.”

  CJ clutched the seat. Why did she get the feeling Bryce’s idea of smooth and hers were two different things? The truck bounced over the countryside like a boat skipping a wake; CJ’s insides churned. She was going to have bruises tomorrow. Lots of them. It’s only for an hour, CJ. You can handle it.

  “If you want to look at the map it might help take your mind off it.”

  Mind? What mind? She’d lost hers the moment Bryce had hefted her into this one-ton nightmare. Lord, she could still feel where his hands had clasped her waist when he’d lifted her onto the sill of the truck.

  Settle down, CJ. You’ll be okay. Bryce knows what he’s doing.

  But he didn’t look super confident. He stared straight ahead, his brow furrowed in concentration as he navigated the barely there dirt road before him. He must have sensed her stare for he flashed her a look. Even in that brief glance she saw the concern in his sky-blue eyes, so much of it that CJ’s toes curled into a ball.

  “I get car sick.”

  He cast her a startled glance. “You get what?”

  “Car sick. Ever since I was a little girl. Reading in the car only makes it worse.”

  He looked at her as if she’d suddenly announced she was a resident of Mars. “You get car sick and you work for a car magazine?”

  “It was supposed to be a desk job,” she moaned, the motion upsetting her sensitive stomach even more. The truck skipped over the road like a pebble on a pond.

  “So why’d you agree to do this?”

  “Desperate,” she groaned.

  “For what? A barf bag?”

  They careened over a particularly nasty bump. CJ clutched her belly and groaned. “Did you have to say tha…?” She reached up and tried to unclip the net thing covering the window.

  “What’re you doing?’

  “Fresh air.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “Wh’not?”

  “Because we’re going too fast. If you stick your head out, the wind’ll catch your helmet and rip your head off.”

  Oh, was that all? But there was a solution to her problem. She could just decapitate herself. But oddly, just tilting her head a bit seemed to help. Air gusted against her face. She closed her eyes. Bliss.

  “Hold on.”

  Her lids popped open. The dirt road curved upward into nothingness. Cacti framed either side of it like gate posts from hell.

  “Can’t you go around?” she yelled just before they jettisoned off the edge.

  “Yee ha,” Bryce yelled, apparently regaining his confidence.

  We’re gonna die. Once again she got that roller coaster feeling in her stomach, and once again her helmet slipped down over her eyes. But the breeze was helping, enough so that she found herself wishing Bell helmets could fit up an editor’s you-know-what.

  “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  “I think I just wet my pants.”

  She heard chuckles and mustered up the strength to look over at him. Her head bounced against the seat as they flew over another bump, the cacti and rocks speeding by. He had a grin on his face, she could tell, even though his helmet obscured all but his cheeks and eyes.

  “Now that’s a first,” he murmured. “I’ve never made a woman wet her pants without touching her.”

  Oh, jeez. Just what she needed, a randy wannabe race car driver making ribald jokes when she felt like death.

  “Don’t let it go to your head,” she wheezed out, tilting her head again and inhaling a mouthful of dust.

  “How’s it going out there, Bryce?” Harry’s voice crackled over the radio.

  CJ groaned. Great, der Führer checking up on them.

  Bryce pressed the button on his steering wheel, opening the connection to the radio. “We’re doing fine…just fine.”

  Fine? Was the man living in another dimension? She gasped, dragging in more mouthfuls of grit.

  Harry sounded equally incredulous…suspicious too. “Uh huh,” he said as if they’d told him they were pursuing a Russian submarine across the desert floor. “And how’s your passenger?”

  “She’s doing just great, Harry. As a matter of fact, we were just talking about you.”

  “You were?”

  “Yeah. I was relaying that story you’d told me about the time you lost control of your bodily functions and had to stop to change firesuits.”

  “Damn it, Bryce, you didn’t tell her that, did you?”

  Bryce darted her a glance and winked. “I sure did.”

  “You son of a—”

  “What’s the matter, Harry?” Bryce cut in. “I thought you’d want the world to know why it is Harry Santini wears brown firesuits.”

  “—rip you out of that truck with my own two hands,” Harry continued, apparently unaware he’d been interrupted. “And if you tell her one more—”

  “See you at the next stop, Harry,” Bryce said, clicking the off switch.

  CJ wanted to laugh, except she was afraid if she opened her mouth she’d start spewing something like the kid from The Exorcist. How the heck she was going to make it through the hour was beyond her. She should have listened to her mother and become a veterinarian. Sticking her arm up a horse’s patootie had to be better than this.

  “You didn’t have to cover for me,” she managed in a weak voice.

  He stole another look at her. “Yeah, I did.”

  “Why?”

  They flew over another bump, and CJ could feel the bruises forming on her rear.

  “Because I admire you, CJ. And maybe if Harry thinks you handled this well, he’ll let you ride the rest of the race.”

  CJ glanced at him, ignoring the flush of pleasure his words sent through her, and not at all sure how to tell him she wouldn’t ride in this thing again if it meant the difference between a slow, horrific death and a fast, horrific death. But what the heck? She was probably in for slow and horrific anyway.

  “Just out of curiosity, why are you doing this?” he asked again.

  She debated telling him the truth, determined that thinking took too much energy, and said, “My editor told me if I didn’t cover this race he’d fire me.”

 
; He grew silent a moment. “That’s kinda harsh.”

  “Yeah, well, Miles Van Dyke makes Norman Bates look like a choir boy.”

  He laughed again. “But you’re supposed to ride along for the whole race.”

  Jeez, did he have to remind her? “Yup.”

  “Will your editor mind that you’re not?”

  “Do bears poop in the woods?” She looked into the distance. A bug committed suicide on the front window. Bug guts at a hundred miles an hour looked like somebody sneezed and forgot to wipe. Bile rose in her throat. She turned her head to the right again, hoping another view would settle her stomach. The sky was beautiful this time of morning. The browns, reds and golds of the desert dawn silhouetted the mountains, turning them into a color as pure as mahogany. It looked like rainbow sherbet. If she wasn’t so close to barfing, she’d start singing “Oh What a Beautiful Morning”.

  “Maybe if you took some motion sickness pills?”

  “Already did.”

  “Oh.”

  It was loud inside the truck, CJ noted, like being inside a barrel with a woodpecker banging on the outside.

  “Damn…hold on.”

  She was beginning to hate those words. She looked ahead and grabbed the nearest thing to her, part of the roll cage. They careened, well, skidded really, around a bend to the right which, if taken at a normal speed, might not have been so bad. Taken at close to ninety, it felt like they were the end of a giant pendulum and the only thing holding them in was the racing harness.

  “Good gracious,” CJ huffed when they straightened out, her stomach doing triple toe loops.

  “Yeah, I know. Sorry.” The truck shook as they slammed into a pot hole the size of Crater Lake, then bounced back out. CJ almost bit her tongue off. As far as she was concerned, this hour was sixty minutes too long.

  “Sorry. Missed that one too.” He glanced at her, probably saw the crazed look in her eyes and said, “Did you know it was Harry’s idea for me to do this?” in an obvious attempt to distract her.

  No, she didn’t. Did she care? Not really, though she probably should given her journalistic background.

  “Just came up to me one day and said, ‘I want you to do the Charity Pro/Am 2000’,” Bryce continued as if he were on a Sunday drive, not sitting next to a woman terrified out of her skull and who was mentally composing her last will and testament. “I thought, sure, it’ll be fun. Plus, it’s for a good cause.”

  He glanced over at her again as they bounced in and then out of another pot hole.

  “Harry and I go way back, but then I’m sure you know that. Anyway, a few weeks after Harry calls, he puts me behind the wheel of one of these things and I’m thinking, I can do this. I didn’t know then about rock slides, deer smacking into your front grill, breaking down on the side of the road and getting bit by snakes. Hell, I thought it’d be fun.”

  “Snakes?” she gulped, her body tensing as they were flung into another turn.

  “Yeah,” Bryce said, the truck completely sideways. “Oops. Hold on.”

  Oops? The truck was sliding around like Herbie the Love Bug and all he had to say was oops? CJ tried not to gag as she grabbed for anything handy.

  When they straightened out Bryce continued as if nothing had happened. “But it’s the scorpions you’ve got to watch out for. At least you can hear the rattlers.”

  She was going to die. She just knew it. The truck skidded out. The tires found purchase. They shot ahead.

  Bryce kept right on talking. “We fell into the river ten miles from our fifth re-fueling stop. That wasn’t so bad, it was rolling over that scared the life out of me. Harry was scared too. Still, it could have been worse. As it was, it only knocked a few of Harry’s teeth loose, but, heck, they were probably loose already. The water helped too. Always better to land on water than the desert floor. Harry says people sometimes roll their trucks on top of a bed of rattlers.” He grew silent a moment, glancing her way to gauge her reaction.

  “How long ago was that?” CJ managed to gasp.

  “That was, let’s see, about two months ago.”

  “You’ve only been practicing for two months?”

  “Hey, don’t worry. This course is easy. They make it that way so we won’t kill ourselves.”

  How reassuring. “Do you like Harry?” she asked more to distract herself than any real interest.

  “Harry? He’s a great guy.”

  “Right,” she said, which came out sounding like, “Rumph,” because she’d suddenly been flung up out of her seat. She landed on her rear with another teeth cracking thud. Bryce didn’t seem to notice.

  “No. He is. Back when I owned a string of joke stores, I used to buy a lot of my gag gifts from him, then I decided to try my hand at selling kids toys, and, well, the rest is history.”

  She glanced at him. He had big, competent hands and they enveloped the steering wheel commandingly. The thought popped into her mind, unwanted, but there it was. I wish those hands would competently envelope me. And on the heels of that thought she wondered if that old wives’ tale could be true…the one about a man’s hands being as big as his…

  “…Dick’s,” Bryce said. “It didn’t go over too well.”

  “I beg your pardon.” For one horrible moment she worried she might have spoken the words aloud.

  “I said it was Dick’s idea for me to carry some of Harry’s more risqué items. We were together even back then.”

  She must have looked as confused as she was because he said, “Dick, you know, my Chief Executive Officer?”

  She nodded, even though she didn’t have a clue who he was talking about.

  “Well, anyway, they didn’t go over too well,” he continued.

  She didn’t say anything, just tried to concentrate on maintaining her dignity.

  “It was the Crotch Buster. One of those electric—”

  “Don’t,” CJ said, holding up a weak hand. “I don’t want to go there.”

  Bryce looked over at her, and CJ could see the wickedness in his eyes. Jeesh the man could grow plants with the heat of that gaze. But there was something else in those eyes too, like a curiosity of some sort.

  “Why not?” he asked suggestively, watching her closely.

  Good lord, the man could make her red, even as sick as she was. She turned away, her gaze fixing on a spot in the distance. Professional, CJ. Be professional. But not since the time her high school football team had stormed the girls’ locker room had she blushed so much. Suddenly the one-ton truck seemed oppressive, about as small as a Matchbox. She glanced back at him. He was giving her that look, the look that seemed to say, “Wanna get lucky?” But of course that was ridiculous. Bryce wouldn’t be interested in her. She had no doubt the man’s bedpost looked like a totem pole with notches from top to bottom, notches earned from women who looked, well, not like her.

  “Have you ever used one of Harry’s Happy Toys?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He smiled. At least she thought he smiled. Hard to tell with the helmet on, but the corners of his eyes crinkled again.

  “A happy toy, you know. One of—”

  “Mr. Danvers,” she interrupted. “Please, do we need to have this conversation?”

  “Yes. And the name’s Bryce.”

  She slanted him a glance designed to make him think of schoolmarms and Catholic schools.

  “C’mon. Tell me. Have you?”

  She would not answer. She would not answer.

  “I promise not to tell anyone if you have.”

  “Shouldn’t you keep your eyes on the road?”

  He shrugged, focusing ahead again. “Not going to answer, eh? Too bad. And, no, I don’t need to look at the road. There are two things I’m naturally great at; driving is the other one.”

  “Oh, really,” she replied tartly. Something caught her attention. She glanced forward, then suddenly stiffened. “Is that why you’re about to hit that cactus?”

  “What cactus?” He faced fo
rward. “Da—!”

  CJ closed her eyes. Time to die.

  Bryce hit the brakes. CJ jerked forward in her seat. The sound of tires scrubbing the desert floor filled the cabin.

  “Oh man,” CJ moaned.

  It was like being on the teacup ride at Disneyland.

  A long while later silence descended round them. Dust, bits of debris, and the smell of burnt tires filled the cab. CJ waved her hand in front of her face as her heart slowly, reluctantly resumed its normal pace.

  It was a while before she felt strong enough to say, “Nice going, Bryce.”

  “I meant to do that.”

  She arched a brow.

  He met her gaze, and despite his brave words she could see the residue of fear in his eyes. “I was trying to demonstrate my driving skill.”

  “Skill, huh? Is that what you call it?”

  “Like I said, driving’s the other thing I do well.”

  “And how many people have you almost killed in bed?” The comment slipped out, unprofessional, but gone before she could retrieve it.

  He leaned toward her, and CJ’s heart began to beat like a twenty-one gun salute.

  “They’ve had to call the paramedics on more than one occasion.”

  She knew he was joking. Knew he was just trying to assert his male ego after almost turning them into road kill. But she didn’t care. He was still the sexiest thing who had ever flirted with her, and he was flirting with her, no doubt about it, though why was beyond her. Probably out of pity.

  Despite the disappointing thought, adrenaline surged through her body and made an immediate dive to her private parts. She glanced over her shoulder. No back seat. Darn.

  Knock it off, Ceej. He’s just jerking your chain. Don’t let him see you panting. Men like him are never serious. At least not about women like you.

  “Tell me, Bryce, have you always had such a big ego? Or are you just a legend in your own mind?”

  He ignored the last bit and said softly, “I’d like to know you.” He shifted closer. “Intimately.”

  Lordy, Lordy, the man was Trouble. Pure, unadulterated reckless trouble. She squirmed in her seat. “Dream on,” said her mouth. In your wet dreams, screamed her mind. But man, oh man, did she wish he was serious.

  “Oh, it’d be no dream.”

  “You’re right. It’d be a nightmare.”